Chapter 7: Aug 9/10 - Loch Scresort to Loch Hourn
August 9th - Loch Scresort, Rum. I have seen more birds here than hitherto this cruise. A heron barked, Oyster Catchers performed some of their versatile concertos, untranslateable of course, as all good music should be and therefore I cannot convey by any signs the exquisite character of their song, those elusive notes which charm beyond belief. There were seals and gulls and guillemot perhaps a razorbill, while the solan haunted the neighbouring seas.
Turning out at 7.15 the Mate and I went to the beach in the dinghy, looking for a suitable spot for ablutions. We find one where a torrent dashed down behind a huge granite rock. We land on this Terra Prohibita, we invade the Forbidden Isle, but we had not been ashore more than a minute or two, when the Home Guard of Rum consisting of uncountable millions of midges drove us incontinently into the sea.
Qui s'excuse ... but a line of Shelley had been running in my head:
O World! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb ......
O Eigg! O Muck! 0 Rum!
To whose dark isle I cum
O Eigg! O Rum! O Muck!
Was ever such good luck?
O Rum! O Muck! O Eigg!
A rhyme for thee I beigg,
I beigg of Rum a keigg
A keigg of Rum and Eigg.
O Allevall! O Hallevall!
O Ashi - Aski - Halleval!!!
You triple peaks of Rum!
You hear the midges hum.
They'll hum till kingdom cum;
The gnats that hum on Rum.
O happy Isle of Muck!
You hear the chickens cluck
When Mother lays an Eigg
Sum Rum! Another peigg!
The Coolins, they lie there,
And Point of Sleat so fair
Ah Blessed Isle of Muck!
I fear that I am stuck
Your patience I will spare
I CANNA dae nae mair.
August 10th - Camus Mhic Iomhair. Loch Hourn. B.C.V. Calm and warm. You cannot better these weather signs. They were all the more welcome to meet with in Loch Hourn which indeed was the Mecca of this great cruise. The 'Victory' cruise designed by Smab and most triumphantly accomplished.
The trip across from Scresort to Mallaig was smooth with a gentle swell. Loch Scavaig was a most impressive sight not far distant in the north. The Point of Sleat was a most fascinating attractive and altogether delightful piece of rock scenery. I know nothing in all Scotland which excels the view of it from the sea from a distance of a few cables. It would be an ideal spot in which to 'boot around in a dinghy on a calm sunny day, as it then was.
We put into Mallaig. Pandora was manoeuvred to admiration up to and alongside the pier through a tangle of craft. A drifter moored to the pier just ahead of us got windy - as the saying is - and scurried about his deck with tenders, rushing aft in alarm at the - as he thought - imminent collision, but Pandora when exactly eleven inches astern of him gracefully retired the way she had come and nestled gently alongside the quay, where had an egg been suspended betwixt the pier and Pandora's hull it would not even have been cracked.
Grimalkin: Do you mean to say you could have used the egg as a fender?
Cat: Yes.
Grimalkin: Without breaking It?
Cat: Certainly.
Grimalkin: Then I disbelieve you.
Cat: You do - do you? Then you have never seen Mr. Skipper at the wheel.
Grimalkin: Oh! You didn't mean an 'eigg did you?
Cat: Tchah!
We took in more diesel at fivepence farthing a gallon less than at Tobermory. We went ashore and after the strenuous business of attending to the mail and getting stores we regaled at the 'Tigh Clachain' on sherry at one and threepence per glass and very good sherry in good measure.
We had an ideal cruise along the extremely beautiful coast of Knoydart increasing in grandeur to the culminating point under Corrie Ghorkill and Laorben, the Matterhorn of Loch Hourn.
The Skipper is not unlike Dr. Johnson In his view of mountains; he calls them lumps preferring the shorter and more expressive term to the 'protuberant' latinity of the Sage. The Priest's Rock, or Sagairt, that unmistakeable prominence near the entrance to Loch Hourn was especially remarkable. Huge trees clinging to sheer precipice looked like mere tufts of heather. More bird life was in evidence and two white goats were browsing on Eilean Piobhaire. As we came up to our usual anchorage below the grouse birds there was much excitement on board waiting for these granite monsters on the ridge of Druim Fada to open into view. The anchor was let go in seven fathoms, rather to the alarm of Smab, who would have preferred five, but she was somewhat reassured when it was pointed out we had come in on the very top of the tide.
MacIver Bay or Camus Mhic Iomhair had never looked more fair and inviting. The great waterfall on the Allt nan Eun was in fine full descent. Its soothing lullaby, its hush-hush and gentle roar could be heard all over the loch, and Lochhournwood under which we lay so snug was musical with sounds of falling water.
Druim Fada! Sylvan ridge!
Unallergic to the midge
Where the moonbeams cast their shadows
O'er the dark Elysian meadows
Steep meadows of Lochhournwood.
Blend of ash and oak and rowan wood
Where the silver boles peep shyly
From the denseness of the thicket,
And the torrent tumbles gaily
O'er the boulder and the bricket.
There is bracken and there's heather
All the different sorts of weather
And a thing that's everlasting
Most allergic to the midges sting.
Grimalkin: Why?
Cat: Don't you like it? I call it 'Bogmyrtle'.
Grimalkin: Do you? I call it mitigated tosh.